


Worry. Or, in which Sherlock is a pain in the arse.

by CakeorDeath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Gen, Sick people being idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeorDeath/pseuds/CakeorDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is not someone given to overt displays of emotion. Sherlock seems to be trying to break that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worry. Or, in which Sherlock is a pain in the arse.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Angst about family members being annoying. Brief mention of child abuse.
> 
> Notes: Thanks to my betas musical_lottie, trinaweena, and pudupudu.

He must have said I love you, to Sherlock, as a child, once. Or twice. Or often. But Mycroft cannot remember saying it, and as an adult ...

He cared for him, he worried about him, Sherlock was a source of irritation and pride. But love ...

The Holmes family were old fashioned. It was what you did for others, how clever, successful you were that mattered. Or, to be more charitable, being helpful and useful was how you showed your love. Getting Sherlock out of his scrapes meant more to the Holmesian mindset than any number of hugs and kisses. Not that Sherlock showed any more gratitude.

Mycroft was shocked out of his reverie (in truth, his light doze – he hadn’t slept in thirty three hours and twenty minutes, and he did not have Sherlock’s unlimited supply of adrenaline) by his assistant.

“Sir.”

“Um?” Mycroft shook his head to clear his brain of the cotton wool that had somehow got clogged up there, and looked up at her for information.

“The doctor wants to see you.”

They shared a look. It said _is he ...?_ and _not bad news, I think_ and _thank god, thank god_.

“Good. You can go home, I am able to get myself a taxi, you know.”

His assistant (Annie, Gemma? What was it today? He was very tired) smiled at him, sat down, and became entranced by her phone as usual. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Mycroft sighed, and made his way towards the doctor.

She was a tired woman, but had guessed or been told that Mycroft was important so she tried to make the effort.

“He’s going to be all right.” She smiled, a professional, distant smile. “He’ll be fine, he’s going to have a rough old ride getting back to himself, but we’ll see him through.”

Something in Mycroft’s shoulders became looser, and his heart no longer felt like it was being garrotted.

“Splendid. And the one who was with him, John Watson? How’s he getting along?”

The doctor opened her mouth, unsure. “Well ... I’m not exactly sure I should-”

“Please, I would so like to hear about the man who saved my brother.”

The doctor pressed her lips together, but then relented, with a smacking sound, as though her mouth was prised open.

“Well, he’s in a critical condition, but ... we think he’ll probably pull through.”

“Good, good.”

Mycroft’s eyes were watering. It was most inconvenient and discomforting.

“Look, sir, don’t you think you should go home and get some rest? You’re no use to anyone in this state, and your brother won’t be awake for hours.”

She was right of course, and it was kind of her to think of him when she was so busy. But. You stay. That’s the rule. With Sherlock you can’t shout at him, or beat him (though Lord knows Father tried both of those enough times) or plead, or beg. You can only stay, and wait, and watch as he slowly destroys himself. Until one day, please God, he comes to you.

“No. No, thank you.”

“Okay then. I’ll get one of the nurses to show you to the relatives’ room.”

And so she went, and then a young nurse with sympathetic eyes lead Mycroft and Annie or Gemma or Maggie into a blandly decorated room, with a television and two sofas, and before Mycroft knew it, he was curled up, covered with a blanket, falling into relieved sleep.

 

“Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft sat up quickly, taking in the surroundings, his own crumpled appearance, before focusing on his waker.

“Lestrade, of course. Forgive me.”

“Don’t be silly. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” he said, automatically. “Well, you know how it is.”

“Yes.” Lestrade coughed. “I heard he’s doing well. Thank God.”

 _Yes, it would be a bugger if your little friend wasn’t available to play, wouldn’t it? No one to do your work for you._ An uncharitable thought, that one. Probably fair enough, given the circumstances.

“Yes, of course. Would you like to see him?”

They walked down the corridor in silence, Lestrade telling himself that he did not need to feel awkward, they did not need to talk.

It was early in the morning, and there were few people in the ward, aside from some sleepy nurses, and several police guards milling around.

Sherlock was in a small room, the sound of beeping and a few nurses pottering around the only sound from afar, but as one came closer to the bed, the sound of deep breaths permeated the room. Sherlock. So vulnerable, so laid out, so childlike.

Mycroft focused on the nurses. Just split up with her girlfriend, Doctor Who fan, ate beans on toast for supper at eleven-ish last night. Pregnant, married three, four years; she was in a car accident six years ago. Recently divorced, three children, all of whom wear braces; ate a chicken tikka sandwich very recently.

Lestrade wiped his eyes. The room had that distant awkwardness; you can’t feel it so intensely, because your brother nearly died, but still. _Lestrade_ was _crying_.

Sherlock coughed. The room’s sad tranquillity vanished, and now it was filled with joy – but also trepidation – as Sherlock opened his eyes. “Where am I?” God he really must be out of it, Sherlock would never say something so banal as that.

“You’re in hospital,” said one of the nurses, in a practised and reassuring tone. “Your brother’s here.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled.

“Now, Sherlock, I’m going to ask some questions all right. Are you in any pain, at all?”

“Yes!” Sherlock groaned.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade, but he was already half-leaving.

There were many more questions, and by the time they were over Sherlock was exhausted and the nurse thoroughly offended. The nurses left with the commandment that Mr Holmes was not to move for any reason, and that they should use the call button if he needed anything.

“John!”

The phrase ‘sat bolt upright’ is overused to the point of cliché, but Mycroft was too tired to think of a less worn metaphor, and it was decidedly accurate.

“His condition is critical, but stable.” Sherlock, even on enough painkillers to kill a small horse, would spot any sugar-coating. “No, you are not going anywhere.”

Sherlock was trying to get up, and Mycroft had to almost shove him back onto his bed, with a force that would not be approved of by health and safety. “Sherlock, if you think that I am going to let you leave that bed then your brain is more addled than I thought it was.”

Mycroft comfortably met the Glare of Painful and Tortuous Death with a slight smile. “You are certainly getting more foolish than I had imagined possible, dashing off to meet an evil genius in a swimming pool.” Mycroft could never resist rebuking Sherlock, despite having experienced more than anyone that it never worked. But he had resisted the urge to clout the stupid, reckless imbecile within an inch of his life, so he felt he deserved some release.

Sherlock was typically rude in response, and showed himself to be sufficiently alive that when the nurse came in to check on Sherlock he said goodbye and went home to rest.

He found Lestrade on the phone, and gave him a quick wave.

“Wait!” Lestrade hung up with an impolite haste, and ran up to Mycroft, who felt an illogical desire to run away.

“Inspector Lestrade, how can I help you?”

“How is he?”

“Well, on the way to being his usual self.”

“I’m sure he’ll be deducing away about the nurses. They’ll be relieved when he’s back on our hands.”

“Quite, quite.”

“Obviously, you don’t have to worry about this now but the investigation ...”

“All the papers sent to my office as soon as possible would be most appreciated, thank you.” Of course, Mycroft already had access that Lestrade could only fantasise about (although Mycroft doubted Lestrade fantasised about more paperwork), but a show of his authority and importance would be useful at a time like this.

“You’re going to be involved in the investigation?”

“Inspector Lestrade, I am going to catch the person responsible and make him regret the day he heard the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’. Good morning.”

As Mycroft strode down the corridor towards the lift, he admitted to himself that he had been somewhat melodramatic in that statement, but his brother was in hospital. _His little brother_.

When Mycroft got to the ground floor he went to the shop and bought a packet of chocolate hobnobs. Damn the diet to hell and back.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and concrit are welcome. (I put 'is' before. Fail self, fail.)


End file.
